Page:The Popular Magazine v72 n1 (1924-04-20).djvu/39

 looking at a curio, an object of worth, or a stone dog in a garden.

“He doesn't look either dangerous, or worth much,” he finally commented, somewhat to Jimmy's dislike. He grunted again, straightened up, carried the lamp to a rickety table and placed it thereon, fumbled in the pocket of his blue shirt for tobacco and papers and with these in his hands preparatory to making a cigarette returned to his victim.

“You understand Italian?” he said, and when Jimmy, striving to preserve at least a slight advantage shook his head in the negative, blurted, “Bah! You do. Or, if you don't, you're not going to learn much! But I say you do. You must. Now, listen. It will be worth your—ummmh!—your life, maybe. Will you be quiet if I let them liberate your feet and get you into a chair? Not that it makes much difference, because if you had the lungs of a man ape from Africa you couldn't make yourself heard outside this room.”

Jimmy saw the futility of further assumption of ignorance and answered, “All right! I'll be quiet! You seem to have the best of it—so far.”

The man grinned and gestured, and some one behind Jimmy cut the bonds that confined his legs and he stretched his cramped tendons, and sat up. Another gesture and he was lifted to his feet by two men who swung him around until he could see a chair. He walked to it and seated himself. A swift appraisement of his surroundings showed him that he was in a circular chamber, justifying his earlier surmise that he had been carried upward from the basement to a tower. There were narrow windows on all sides, but they were at least fifteen feet above the possibility of reach, and barred. The construction of the dome proved that he was in a room with a rounded, peaked roof, a place built for, or at least admirably adapted for, a prison chamber; one that doubtless had held many prisoners before ever he had been brought there. One that might have witnessed anything from mere sequestration to tortures manifold.

“Well,” Jimmy asked in English, “what's it all about? What do you want with me? What's the answer?”

The man's ready grin proved that he understood.

“I spika da Ingleese too. Learna da Ingleese when run a da shine shop in New York; but—spika da Italiano better. So—we spika da Italiano, signor.”

His cheerful grin had given Jimmy a momentary hope of good will that might be cultivated, but it was instantly dashed by the man's next words which were in Italian, harsh, uncompromising, and—without the grin.

“Signor Ware, captain of the ship Adventure, I am paid to capture you. I am paid to hold you up to the time when your ship is to sail for Spalato. If you do not resist you shall suffer no harm. You will be well fed and can sleep well here! I am paid to be careful and considerate of you. But I am paid to see that you do just as I say. Otherwise—if you prove troublesome—it is left to me! I don't wish to adopt—let us be kind in word—extreme measures. But this, understand, you are to be kept here until your ship sails with you aboard or—your stay may be long. Which is it to be? I ask you? Peacefully, unharmed, and quietly, or must I make you forever still?”

Jimmy, amazed and perplexed by this astounding decree, could not immediately reply. As if impatient of delay the man shifted, again eyed him, and added, “Personally you are of no importance to me. I dislike destroying anything which is of no importance to me, because I always know that it may be of use to some other than myself. For that reason I should regret having to destroy you. But, captain, you are going to stay here one way or the other, until the boat sails, and it is for you to say whether you sail with it or never sail again. I have contracted and never yet have I taken a contract that I didn't carry through. Now, which is it to be?”

For a long time Ware stared into the unblinking, expressionless eyes before he asked, “And Sordillo? What of that young man Pietro Sordillo? I'll not leave him out of the bargain. What have you done with him? Is he to be included in this agreement?”

His captor suddenly displayed signs of amusement. He twisted in his chair, then beat his hands upon his knees and abruptly burst into hoarse laughter. He knuckled his eyes as if they had been involuntarily dimmed by the moisture of mirth at a cause so insignificant.

“What has he to do with it—this guide, this little man you call Sordillo?”

“He's got a lot to do with it,” stoutly